Encounters
by SisiDraig
Summary: Because love happens slowly ... until it doesn't, and because life is no fairy tale ... until it is. Twelve chance encounters between rich, divorcee Mr Gold and a betrothed Belle. AU, set in this world. Twelve small chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Dear all, Oncers, Rumbellers and fanficers. ****This is my first _Rumbelle _(and Once Upon a Time) fanfic, so please be gentle with me.**

**D/C: I own nothing (if I did, there would be a lot more Rumbelle on a Sunday night and a lot less of ... well, everyone else).**

**Anyway … enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Encounter 1<strong>

Gold didn't love her when he first saw her. This wasn't some kind of love-at-first-sight fairy-tale. There were no Handsome Princes or Fairy Godmothers in this. He thought she was attractive – a Belle in name and nature – but love? Gold was its enemy.

He'd been burned too many times by the flames of romance. He didn't – as the gossips suggested – begrudge these young people their _epic_ love stories; he pitied them. He knew what they were yet to discover, love was a minefield of vicious inconsistencies. The only constant was that it would end … badly and in heartbreak.

Still it wasn't good for the owner of a large Card and Gift Company to smear the noble name of love. The twisted emotion was the Number One reason people bought his crappy products, so he congratulated his top seller, Gaston, when he proudly paraded his bride-to-be at the office Christmas party. Gold took her outstretched hand, and pressed his rough lips to the soft skin on the back of her hand. He was a pioneer of old-fashioned chivalry and could smell the fruity perfume dabbed on her wrist.

'You're glowing with love, dearie,' he hummed. 'Gaston treats you well.'

She smiled awkwardly. It was not a normal response for a fervent fiancée, he'd expected to endure the over enthusiastic gushing of a blushing bride. Perhaps, Gaston's betrothed was shy or, more likely, she was put off by the fact his hand was still trapping hers. He stopped their contact abruptly.

Gold understood her hesitancy. Gaston would have told her that he was some kind of beast; an old divorcee plagued by rumours that he'd had his wife murdered and procured his vast fortune through shady deals with European drug lords. Only some of it was true.

'Well,' he cleared his throat, 'enjoy the party.' He used his cane to gesture to the gaudy Christmas decorations. A giant, glittery reindeer centrepiece dripping with fairy lights was the biggest eyesore, but there were plenty of smaller eye-insults to keep all the workers going. A particularly offensive life-sized dancing Santa was garnering a lot of attention at the door. This was the last time he allowed his tasteless secretary to decorate anything.

'We will,' Gaston promised, wrapping an arm around his fiancée's slim waist and practically pinning her to his hip. Gold couldn't help feel that Gaston was wearing the woman like a prized trinket. He had an inkling that Belle was too good for the man she was promised to, but Gaston was a ruthless salesman. If he'd wanted, he would have been able to sell himself to a blue-eyed beauty in a bar. But their relationship was their business. They're pursuit of love was no more or less doomed than any other couple in the world.

Gold had moved on. He'd sampled a few of the canapés and a lot of the wine. He'd met a few more worker's spouses and bid far too many people a Merry Christmas … especially as it was still November. Most of his guests were tedious, some were actively annoying and all were utterly unmemorable.

He had no reason to believe that the Belle of the ball would eventually change his opinion on love forever.

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><p><strong>Constrictive criticism is not only welcomed, but encouraged. Thank-you-please, dearies.<strong>

**Sisi…xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to those of you who are reading. Here's the next instalment….**

**))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))**

Gold only vaguely recognised her when she interrupted his coffee break. He always went to same coffee shop, it was located conveniently close to work. It was a basement set-up, with low-lighting and reading lamps. One wall was made up entirely of bookcases, stocking only the most unusual and unfamiliar of literary gems. He loved to lose himself in in the softness of the cushions, the words on the pages and the delicious aromas of freshly brewed coffee. It was his favourite place in the world; quiet and secluded, perfect for a recluse like himself to while away the hours.

Today was unusually busy. There was some author coming in to read a section of her book. He'd read the book. It was shallow drivel about a long-suffering waitress, who wanted to be a hard-hitting journalist. Of course – as with every clichéd piece of chick-lit ever produced – the heroine was beautiful and kind, while the boyfriend was cruel and unappreciative. Until, in a predictable turn of events the beauty met a handsome man. Oh, and didn't it just turn out that he had the influence to help her fulfil her dreams? And weren't they just so perfect for one another? And didn't they share a (supposedly) romantic kiss in the rain.

Kissing in the rain didn't seem romantic. It seemed nonsensical. Skin, slippery under perfumed skin and freezing at the touch, was not appealing. Gold was not one for romance at the best of times, but catching pneumonia for the sake of a snog was the kind of sensationalist writing that ruined love for normal people.

The book was complete fantasy, but it's an author's prerogative to detail a love that couldn't exist. Gold doubted that love existed at all. Marriage was simply the by-product of falling into a co-habitual routine with someone who didn't make you want to suffocate them.

'I'm sorry,' the woman said, looming in his peripheral vision. 'Mr Gold, isn't it?'

'Yes, and you are …'

'Belle,' she answered, with an uncertain smile. 'Gaston's fiancée.'

'Of course,' he nodded, recalling a brief meeting at the company Christmas party a few weeks ago. 'My memory isn't what it used to be.'

'I'm sure your memory is fine for the important things,' Belle suggested. 'But the name of a woman you only met fleetingly….' She trailed off, and he got the distinct feeling she didn't think she was worth a lot. It wasn't his place to tell her otherwise. Perhaps she was a waste of a pretty face, he didn't know. He didn't care to know.

'Would you mind if I joined you?' she asked, suddenly bolder. 'All the tables are….' She gestured vaguely around the café. The tables were full. She could have said "full", but instead she'd chosen to leave her sentence irritatingly incomplete.

'Not too good at finishing sentences, are you dearie?' he mocked.

'Oh, well I don't wish to impose.'

Everything about her screamed self-deprecation. Gold recognised it from looking in the mirror.

'I suppose I could just stand. But I just thought that….'

Again, the sentence was left unfinished and, _again, _it was annoying. It didn't matter that her vague gesturing was enough for him to realise that she was there to hear the author reading a passage from her book, he couldn't stand the mystery she presented with every simple sentence.

Gold felt irritated by her, but he found her self-doubt picking a reflective chord in his own chest. It was clear the poor dear was in desperate need of a break.

'Sit down,' he snapped at her. 'But this trailing off,' he gave a flutter of his fingers to help illustrate his point, '_has_ to stop.'

She flashed him a smile that reached right up to eyes. If the visiting author had described them, she might have used clichéd metaphors to describe the colour of them; pools of azures or, liquid sapphires perhaps. She could have compared them to the sky on a summer's day, or a calm Caribbean sea. Gold did not believe in such fanciful descriptions. Her eyes were blue and he refused to notice that they were crinkled at the corners from her smile.

He also refused to notice that she smelt like summer fruits when she slid into the booth, or that her chestnut hair bounced around her shoulders. He _did_ allow himself to notice that the overpowering stench of her shampoo clashed with the smell of coffee beans. It must have been giving her a headache, it was certainly giving him one.

Belle sat quietly and read for a while. She was reading the author's book and was only about half way through, but she seemed animated by the poorly-written, sorry-excuse for a novel. She was drinking in every word, turning the pages slowly, savouring the touch of the paper on her fingertips and breathing in the scent of a new novel.

'You'll have to read quicker than that, dearie, if you hope to be finished before the author reads her passage.'

'Oh, this is the third time I've read it,' Belle blushed, placing a tatty old bus ticket in the pages to hold her place. 'I love it. The tall, dark and handsome man rescues the damsel in distress from her beastly boyfriend and they live happily ever after. It's a dream … It's my dream.'

'To be able escape into a fantasy world at any time,' Gold said steadily, 'that's a powerful kind of magic.'

'Yes,' she was more animated than she had been before. 'I am constantly lost in a book. The characters, the places, the fantasy. I can be anyone I want to be, just at the turn of a page.'

'Is that what you see in this drivel?' Gold gestured to the book. 'You see yourself in the distressed damsel? You see Gaston in the handsome stranger.'

At the mention of her fiancé, the light seemed to drain from her.

'Something like that,' she agreed, fingering the embossed title on the glossy cover.

'Then I suppose the question is … who is the beastly boyfriend you're fleeing from?'

She said nothing, just continuing to brush over the words like she was reading brail. She was stroking it like it was her talisman, her protection from the real world. Gold realised in an instant, that heroines didn't need talismans and protection if they had their happy endings. Belle's attraction to the book was not that she was living a similar happy ending to the protagonist, it was that she was caged by the same hellish beginning.

And as quickly as he realised that, he realised that he didn't care.

Sensing an awkwardness in the air, Belle changed the subject:

'I've never been here before, it's wonderful.'

Dark mahogany wood, deep red décor and all the leather-covered books she could wish for. It was the kind of place she dreamed of, a small homely nook of the city that only a select few people knew about.

'Yes it is.' This was something they could certainly agree on. 'I think it might be the greatest place in the whole world.'

'You come here a lot then?'

'Every day, dearie.' Before bragging: 'The baristas know my coffee order.'

Belle glanced to the baristas. They were busying themselves with the small makeshift stage. It would only be a few minutes before Jenni Jotting appeared. Belle was so excited to see the woman she'd idolised for months. Ms Jottings was an attractive, plump lady with sensible summer dresses and smart shoes. She was a classic, bookish, mumsie type and Belle wanted to be like her more than anything.

Belle could imagine herself sitting on that stage reading a passage from one of her own novels. It was her ultimate fantasy, to be loved and respected novelist … but she was no writer. Gaston had laughed when she'd allowed him to read her feeble efforts and her father had never understood her hobby as anything more than a loner's pursuit and a gateway to a spinster's life.

Whilst Belle's mother had always believed in her, she'd been snatched away, when Belle was just eleven. That was when everyone had stopped telling Belle she could be anything she wanted to be. It was when her father had first started looking out for a good man to marry her off to. When she was eighteen, there had been Gaston, and her father had finally allowed her out of his tyrannical control and into a new fiancé's.

'Jenni Jotting will be here in just two minutes,' a barista said.

He was one of those creative types that Gaston found so offensive. He had a bit of a topknot and an ironic beard, which was also the pattern of his shirt. His trousers showed off his bony ankles, but it was his dark, powerful eyes that had her distracted. And he seemed to be smiling at her too.

Belle's stomach fluttered just a little, but she'd always been a fantasist. She had a nasty habit of believe that every man who showed her just the smallest amount of affection was her handsome prince.

'Well,' Gold distracted her daydreaming, 'that is most definitely my cue to leave.'

'You're not going to hear the reading?' Belle asked, tearing her gaze from the barista, and back to her fiancé's estranged boss.

'I would rather ram this cane in my eye,' he answered so matter-of-factly that it actually made her smile. He returned in-kind and nodded his head in farewell: 'Enjoy the reading, dearie.'

And with that, he disappeared.

Belle did enjoy the reading. Jenni Jotting was an inspiration to her, and she told her as such in the Q&A.

'That's very kind of you, be sure to have that book of yours signed at the end.'

Getting to meet Ms Jotting and having just a few moments with her to talk about their favourite books and the enjoyment they received from writing was dream come true. Ms Jottings even wrote a wonderful personalised the message on the inside cover of her book.

It had been the highlight of Belle's year, but receiving a free coffee and a scribbled phone number on a napkin from the bearded man was a nice little bonus too.


	3. Chapter 3

Gold's third moment with Belle, was different to the first two. He didn't speak to her; she didn't even see him. He just caught glimpse of a small flame from his office window and peered through the glass to find out what caused it.

Gaston was in the company car park with Belle. He was holding what looked like some kind of flaming paper or tissue in one hand and a lighter in the other. Belle was shaking her head dramatically, that chestnut hair flying about her face. The windows were soundproofed at Gold's request, so he could only imagine what she was saying, or more likely failing to say, with a half-hearted trail off.

'Please don't burn my….' He mimicked her gentle accent.

'Shush, Belle,' he spoke with Gaston's rough yank tones and brutal selling technique. 'If I burn this now, they'll become limited edition. And then we can charge more per unit.'

'No, that scrap of tissue holds all my outrageously optimistic ideas about….'

This time the trailing off wasn't a deliberate parody. The scene ahead of him just swallowed up all his words. He tried to look away, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the burning horror show.

Gold watched as Belle handed over what was clearly her copy of Jenni Jotting's crappy novel that she loved so much. He watched as Gaston dropped the tissue into the centre. He was burning her book. It was her one escape from the world he'd trapped her in and now he'd stolen it from her.

Despite the soundproofing, Gold could almost hear her sobs. He could certainly see them shuddering through her body, her knees beginning to buckle underneath her. Gaston either didn't notice, or he simply didn't care. He dropped the burning pile of pages to the floor and dragged his future bride away by the arm.

For the first time in a long time, Gold actually felt an emotion tugging at his heartstrings and under his breath, he mumbled:

'Poor girl.'

Then he reminded himself that he just didn't care and returned, guilt-free, to balancing the books.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to those who are reading, and to those who reviewed. As we were left starved of Rumbelle scenes **_**again**_ **this week, it's only natural that we should all find solace in fanfiction – it's starting to become all we've got.**

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><p>Gold was wandering labouredly through the park when he noticed the commotion. He'd been distracted all day. It was just one of those days when he just couldn't concentrate on the futile numbers and figures produced by his semi-useless accounting team. He'd told his secretary to tell any callers that he was at a meeting and had taken himself for a walk. Now, he was breathing in the (nearly) fresh air of an inner-city park and enjoying the sound of bird song, which was only just audible above the noise of impatient traffic.<p>

The cold wind was biting, and his heavy jacket wasn't as resistant to the elements as he would have liked. He felt the chill in his bones and his damned leg was affected by the bitter temperature, reinforcing his dependence on his cane. He'd never felt older. His mischievous youth was far behind him. Now he was a just filled with dark memories and deep-seated resentment.

He heard them before he saw them. They were arguing with no consideration for Gold's peace. They didn't become any less animated the closer he hobbled to them. In fact, it wasn't until he tapped his cane on the ground and muttered 'Well, well,' before either ceased to fire their insults.

'Er, Mr Gold,' Gaston squirmed, and rightly so. He was supposed to be selling Gold's ghastly Christmas cards to gullible Holiday-lovers. He was _not_ supposed to be starting a cheap slanging match with his fiancée in a park. 'I was just on a lunch break.'

'Oh,' Gold hummed, glancing at the watch on his wrist. It was a cheap, nasty thing that had belonged to his father, but it was all he had left of him and, more importantly, it worked and was free of charge. 'At eleven o'clock? That seems a little early for lunch, doesn't it, dearie?'

'Yes, it's an early lunch,' he gabbled. 'I wanted to spend it discussing wedding plans with my girl.' He made a grab for Belle's hand, but she jerked away. Gold would have been disappointed in her if she hadn't.

'_Arguing _with your betrothed,' Gold corrected and, not quite under his breath, he added: 'You do seem to do that a lot.'

He noticed Belle quirk her head a little to the side. She gazed at him as though she was seeing something that Gaston had missed. Perhaps she was somehow aware that Gold had, once again, unintentionally stumbled upon the darkest parts of their relationship.

'Perhaps you and I need a little talk about work ethic, Gaston?' he suggested, twirling his cane in his leather-gloved hands.

'Oh, well, I'm not sure that's necessary, I was only…'

'_I'm _sure that it's necessary,' Gold insisted. 'In fact, you can accompany me back to the office.'

Gaston smartly agreed and said a strained goodbye to his fiancée. Gold didn't care for their twisted relationship. There seemed to be nothing between them, but resentment. Though he couldn't help wonder how Belle held on to such hopes of love, when her lover was so undeserving.

Gold didn't bother with conversation. There was an uncomfortable atmosphere between him and his employee, and he revelled in it. Gaston did not. He kept twitching, opening his mouth to talk and then thinking better of it. Eventually, he forgot to think and ignorant words tumbled from overconfident lips.

'Here he is, the evil man' he gestured towards a homeless man clutching a small bucket of money in one hand and a crudely written sign claiming he wanted "Cash 4 food + water" in the other.

One look at the man's sunken eyes and the purple-blue patch at the crook of his arm, told a different story to the sign. Gold suspected that the man wanted "Cash 4 drugs + beer", but a lie on a sign was hardly enough to call him evil.

'This scumbag is the reason Belle and I were arguing,' Gaston explained, despite Gold's unwavering disinterest. 'He sold us some sob story about his mum being ill in hospital and Belle actually wanted to help him. Can you believe it? I told her that he'd steal her handbag if she got too close, but would she listen to sense? 'Couse not. I had to drag her away before she got herself hurt. Foolish girl.'

Gold didn't respond – not in words at least – but as they strolled past the homeless man, he dropped a few coins into the bucket. After all, Gold would've hated for Gaston think he sided with him in this debate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to the readers and reviewers.**

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><p>Belle noticed Gold immediately as he entered the coffee shop. He didn't fit in with the usual clientele, but he was clearly as welcome as the scent of brewing coffee. He was probably a basis for many imaginative stories from the creative caffeine-cravers. She could envisage the wonders they could weave around the rich, elusive man they knew nothing about. This was, she supposed, how rumours like the ones Gaston told her began.<p>

But Mr Gold was fascinating and Belle often caught herself dreaming up her own ideas for him. It was strange to think that she hadn't known the man a few weeks ago, now he seemed to pop up at every turn. If this was her fairy-tale, he might possibly be her Fairy God Father, complete with a wispy, silver halo.

It didn't matter to her that Gaston seemed to think Gold was some kind of beast, she didn't worry about rumours and hearsay. She saw people for who they were and trusted her judgement. Gold had been nothing but civil and (mostly) polite to her on the few occasions that they'd spoken. _That _was what was important.

::

Although she might not have been surprised to see him, he was clearly a little startled by her. But then this washis favourite place. This was where they knew his coffee order and saved his seat in the most distant booth. Still, he'd have to accept that she too had a spot here now, which was to perch on a bar stool at the counter.

'For my Belle,' Charlie charmed, distracting her with a mug of coffee. He'd put a pattern on the top, a heart shape made from the foam. She smiled her thanks warmly at him. 'You like it?' he confirmed.

'It's so perfect,' she marvelled. 'I could never make anything that well.'

'You wouldn't need to, I'm sure. You just flash that pretty smile and every man in sight jumps to your every whim.'

He was effortlessly charming, and it was a _long _time since anyone had said such kind things to her. She shook her head, allowing her chestnut curls to hide her blushing cheeks and hoping her didn't notice.

'Ah, Mr Gold,' he acknowledged the man as he came into earshot. 'The usual?'

'Mmm,' the mysterious man confirmed gracefully. 'I'll have it my booth if you don't mind and,' he cast a disdainful gaze to Belle's heart-adorned coffee, 'don't bother with the artwork. Save that for the women who are set to be married.'

He was gone in a blink. Charlie had moved to machine to make up "the usual" and Belle was left to stare at the heart in her mug through new eyes. The foam was starting to disintegrate and the heart was melting into a messy blob. It was probably a fair representation of what was happening her actual heart; the longer she stayed with Gaston, the more it turned into mush.

How dare Gold judge her, when he knew nothing of the situation!

She was angry, and she was absolutely certain Gold should hear about it.

Belle got to her feet and marched across the wooden floor towards him. She had enormous heels on, which raised her from her diminutive, girlish height of 5"2 into a woman not to be reckoned with.

'How dare you!' she accused, clutching the edge of his table and leaning down to confront him at (almost) eye-level. 'You know nothing of my relationship with Gaston and yet you presume to judge me!'

'I'm not judging you, dearie,' he placated, with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'I understand your situation all too well.'

He reached into his deep coat pocket and pulled out a book. Her book; singed and blackened from where Gaston had burned it in the car park a few weeks ago.

'I've read this crappy book too, remember,' he placed it on the table and slid it towards her. 'I'm fully aware of how it begins, and,' his eyes seemed to flick towards Charlie, 'how it ends.'

'Where did you…?' she trailed off, her knees buckling beneath her, forcing her onto the seat next to him. 'How did you…?'

'I have told you about the sentence thing, haven't I?' he snapped.

But she didn't hear his angry tone. She was so happy to have the book again. Yes, it was ruined and most of the middle pages were turned to ash, but the front page – the part with the message from her idol – was very much intact. No matter how dark Mr Gold's mood, Belle was tearfully happy.

'Thank you,' she whispered. And louder: 'Thank you.' And before she could stop herself, she found throwing her arms around his neck. The angle was awkward and he stayed stiff in her arms, but she was too happy to care and held onto him anyway. Long enough to notice that he smelt of peppermints, printing ink, and expensive shampoo, and long enough to feel the softness of his hair against her cheek and tops of her arms.

She only let him go when his coffee arrived. Charlie was fixing her with a strange look.

'Mr Gold found my book,' she explained, holding up the charred pages. 'Isn't it wonderful?'

'It's burned,' he frowned.

'Not all of it.' She clutched it close to her chest. What Charlie couldn't understand – what Mr Gold refused to let himself understand – was that these bound, charred scraps weren't just the left over ashes of a novel. They were hope, just a small glimmer of it, in her otherwise bleak existence.

'Okay,' Charlie shrugged, acknowledging a customer gesturing to him from across the room. 'I need to go and serve this girl. Come back to the counter when you're done with the old man? I'd, er, I'd like to keep talking to you..'

'Sure,' she agreed, her heart fluttering just a little. He was so lovely and kind; so unlike Gaston. She turned to thank Mr Gold one final time. He nodded curtly, but just as she was leaving, he spoke again:

'The inscription…. Do you really want to...?'

'…be an author?' she interrupted. 'It's my deepest, darkest secret,' she smiled weakly. All she could think was that if even 2% of the things she'd heard about Mr Gold were true, a pipedream about being a writer was not enough to be considered "dark".

'It's just fantasy, isn't it?' she conceded. 'I need to be more grounded. I guess visiting this place for the first time, and meeting Ms Jotting … I got a bit carried away with it all. Still, it was a dream and it's over now.'

'Dreams can be very powerful, dearie,' he said calmly. He hardly looked at her as he blew gently on his beverage. 'You should never give up on them.'

Belle squinted just a little, really taking in the man ahead of her. He was strangely graceful, had something sort of intriguing about him. He wasn't the beast Gaston spoke about, or the decrepit old zombie that Charlie described. There was something about it. It was there just behind his scowl, and it took a bit of looking to see.

She could feel Charlie at the counter staring at her, willing her to join him, but she wasn't quite finished yet.

'You know, Mr Gold, you're not the monster people say you are.'

'It's just a book, dearie.' And as though she'd forgotten: 'Most of the pages are ruined and I only picked it up because it was littering my carpark.'

'I know,' she clutched the novel across her heart, 'but you kept it for me. And Gaston told me you gave money to that homeless man we were arguing about.'

'He probably used it to overdose on heroine,' Gold shrugged. 'I was simply helping to clear the streets of riffraff.'

'You don't have to act like this, you know.'

'Like what?'

'So heartless all the time.'

'It's no act, dearie,' his fingers fluttered around his mug, the mark of a showman.

She just tipped her head to the side and smiled the slightest of smiles. Mr Gold's mask might have been cruel and ruthless, but it was just that; a mask. Belle had stopped being scared of people in masks a _long_ time ago. She leant close to him, lips almost brushing his ear and whispered three, very simple words:

'I see you.'

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><p><strong>I know no one wants to see Belle with anyone but Gold, but please bear with me. We'll get there. :)<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

The sixth time Gold saw Belle, it was a surprise. It was Christmas Eve, so naturally he was working late. The later he left the office, the less chance he'd have of running into someone spreading "holiday cheer", or worse asking for charity money. Christmas was, undoubtedly, his least favourite time of year. It was a time for family, joy and love, none of which he had in his life.

Gold's Christmas would be spent – as it was every year – sat in front of the fire in the library of his over-sized mansion. He would relax into his arm chair and read A Christmas Carol; as he did every year. He took comfort from the fact that Scrooge was the only person (real or fictional) that hated Christmas as much as Gold did. Though at least Scrooge wasn't in the business of Christmas. Gold, on the other hand, had been staring at tacky Christmas cards since late August, having them perfected and redesigned until they impeccably captured the sickly-sweet sentiment of this commercial holiday.

There was a gentle knock at his office door. He imagined it would be his secretary. She'd be desperate to get home to her family. She had a little one, who was probably excited about a fat man creeping into the house while she slept and rummaging about under the tree. Maybe her family wanted to go through the farce of leaving milk and cookies for the festive house-breaker and a carrot for his red-nosed steed.

He was fiddling about in a filing cabinet, when the door was pushed open.

'You can go, dearie,' he said. 'No point keeping the child waiting for….' His words stuck in his throat when he turned to see Belle smiling gently at him.

'Who did you think I was?' she asked.

'My secretary. She's waiting for my say so to leave.'

'She isn't,' Belle frowned.

'What?'

'There's no one here. I had to guess where your office was.'

'What!' he bellowed. That stupid wench. He'd fire her next time he saw her. Who did she think she was walking away on his time? He tried to storm out of the room. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he was going to get there angrily.

'What are you doing?' Belle asked, putting at hand out to stop him as he tried to push through the door. Her fingers caught him on the shoulder and the shock of her touch halted his march. He looked down at the contact and allowed his eyes to trace a path along her slender fingers, to delicate wrists, up gentle arms and a long neck until he met her eyes. She smiled.

'It's Christmas … let her off, just this once.'

'Fine,' he snarled, yanking himself away from her and moving back to his desk. He didn't like to be touched and ever since their last encounter in the coffee shop, Gold worried that Belle knew too much about him somehow. 'What are you doing here anyway? Don't tell me you came all this way just to convince me not to fire my worthless secretary.'

'I came to wish you a Merry Christmas,' she beamed, revealing a small, wrapped package from behind her back.

'Is that…' he pointed towards the gift, 'is that for me?'

'Yes.' She turned it over in her dainty hands. It was beautifully wrapped; the tape barely visible and the bow delicately tied. She'd clearly taken a lot of time over it. 'It's sort of a "Thank You", for saving the book for me. Gaston said you didn't really do Christmas, but I felt I should get you something. I was going to leave it at the coffee shop … but then I saw the light on up here. I thought it might be you.'

'And you decided you'd keep me company.' He sounded more callous than he'd intended, but he was confused by the situation. It had been many years since he'd received a gift and he'd forgotten how to react.

'No one should be alone at Christmas.'

'Don't you worry about me, dearie,' he sneered. 'I'll be fine … more than fine … fantastic even.'

'Well that's good to know,' she said through pursed lips. She looked like she was trying not to laugh. He didn't call her up on it, as a silent thanks for the fact she hadn't called him up on his obvious lie about being "fine".

'Here,' she thrust the gift in his direction. He took it in one hand. Sturdy, not too heavy, oblong in shape. It was book of some kind. That would make sense; a book for a book.

'You may as well open it,' she gabbled, fidgeting on the spot. 'I've kept the receipt. Gaston insisted. He said you'd throw it back in my face, but … well….'

Gold peeled back the paper gently. It was a deep red with golden reindeer etched upon it. He didn't want to tear at it; that seemed too thoughtless for such a carefully wrapped gift. Instead, he picked at the tape at one end until he was able to peel back a flap and slide the book out keeping the wrapping mostly intact.

The book was old. It smelt old, as though every page held its own story hidden in the dust. It was bound with dark leather and simple, elegant lettering spelled out the title: A Christmas Carol.

'How did you know?' he questioned, looking up at her in disbelief. It was a stupid question, because she couldn't possibly have known. It was just an incredible coincidence, though Jenni Jottings might have described it as fate.

'Do you like it?' There was a glimmer of hope in her eyes, but it died immediately and her self-doubt crashed over her like a tidal wave. 'You hate it. That's okay.'

She made to take it from him. He snatched it to his chest.

'I don't think so, dearie,' he waggled his finger meaningfully. 'You gave this to me, you don't get to just _take _it back.'

'So you _do_ like it,' she realised aloud. She was beaming now. Fearing that she was getting a little too happy, or too close, or too … something, Gold heard himself say:

'It's okay.'

But it didn't seem to matter what he said, because Belle just seemed to hear: "I love it" … and that was probably what he'd meant.

'I'm so glad you like it. I knew you were a reader, and this is the book that defined Christmas as we know it. There isn't another that's nearly as iconic at this time of year.'

'Couldn't agree more,' he muttered, turning a few pages to better breathe it in. He couldn't have asked for a better gift.

'It's the 60s version,' she gabbled. 'Used, but I didn't think that would matter. A previous owner just adds character … or that's what I think. And I thought the cover was more … you.'

He just looked at her. She was remarkable, and that was despite the garbled sentences and uncertain trail-offs.

'What?' she whispered, a sure sign he'd been staring too long.

'Nothing, just … this is wonderful.' He gestured to the book, which was a lot better than what he'd almost said: you're wonderful.

'Well, I'm glad because it isn't just a Christmas Gift, or a Thank You Gift…. It's, it's sort of a "goodbye" too.'

'Oh?'

'I've left Gaston,' she held up her left hand. Her ring finger was bare, marked only by a band of fair skin just marginally paler than the rest. 'He didn't really love me, anyway. It's for the best.'

'Where are you spending Christmas?' he asked. He knew the sickening heartbreak of a Christmas alone. He wouldn't wish to inflict that pain on anyone, let alone someone who'd been so kind to him.

'I'm going to see my father. He's been so lonely since mum died and….' She fiddled at her hair a little. 'You don't want to hear about all that.'

Gold could feel a battle raging inside him. Part of him wanted to tell her that he damned well didn't want to hear about her boring little personal problems. The other wanted to caress her cheek and tell her that everything was okay. He wanted her to know that she could tell him anything. Neither side won; the result was to stand there looking gormless.

'Well,' she said eventually, 'I'd best get going or I'll never make it to my father's this evening. It was good seeing you, Mr Gold,' she said, leaning on to her tiptoes and pressing her soft lips to his cheek. 'Merry Christmas,' she whispered.

'Merry Christmas,' he replied numbly. He could only watch as she left his office. He noticed she had white tights on and a pale brown outfit. She looked younger than her years. It must be the optimism. Even on Christmas Eve with a broken engagement in her wake, she behaved like she had no scepticism about anything. She was the kind of person who believed the best in people, and made people want to prove her right.

Gold stared down at the book and sighed. Was his future just a little less lonely than he'd imagined?

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading and for all the follows, faves and reviews. I'll respond to the reviews later (when I'm not in work ... shhhh!) x<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

Gold noticed her, despite the throbbing crowd. Her smile, framed by gentle brown curls, was more illuminating that the celebratory fireworks overhead. He'd been thinking about her a lot over recently. Not by choice. Her scent was on the pages of that beautifully bound and exceptionally precious book, and her kindness radiated from it with every closing chapter. Her presence had haunted him like a ghost this holiday season, which was probably fitting for a man reading A Christmas Carol.

Belle spotted him and waved enthusiastically. She pointed to her hand, which was clasped with another. That twerp Charlie must have finally won her affection with foam hearts and an unhygienic beard. Gold simply nodded his head to acknowledge her and refocused his attention on the mob forming on the his road.

Gold usually hated the fact that the road outside his house was one of just a few, whose neighbours still gathered to hold hands, sing, and wish each other a "Happy New Year". The only other time of year Gold saw his neighbours communicate was during the semi-frequent arguments about whose car was parked in front of whose drive. They seemed willing put their automobile-altercations aside for the sake of a few beers and a chorus of _Aulde Lang Syne._

The song was one he knew well from his childhood. A tune from the highlands where he had been raised, but he hadn't had much call to sing it for many years and felt no desire to sing it now. He turned to go back into his house, and bring in the New Year the same way he brought in every year; with a good book and a strong stout.

A dainty hand caught his wrist.

'You can't go yet, Mr Gold' the owner said. He didn't need to turnaround to know who spoke. It wasn't just the delicate touch or lilting accent that gave Belle away. It was that there wasn't another person in the entire world who would have even noticed that he was leaving the celebration.

'I'm tired,' he sighed, pulling away from her as gently as he could.

'You can't be tired,' she laughed. She looked brighter and happier than he'd ever seen her before. Perhaps it was Beardy's influence, though perhaps it the influence of the complicated cocktail she was sipping on. 'It isn't even midnight. Come on,' she grabbed his hand, and pulled him towards the crowd. 'Come on.'

He simply couldn't resist. Belle found them a place, next to Charlie. Charlie greeted him with a sloppy handshake and an overly-enthusiastic:

'Mr Goooold! How is my favourite, old recluse? Happy New Year, bro.'

Gold responded, with a cold:

'Good evening, Charlie.'

'Hey,' Charlie slurred, putting his arm around Belle and using her as a resting post. 'Aren't you going to congratulate us?' He pressed a sloppy, beardy kiss to her cheek. 'It's our one week anniversary.'

'A one _week_ anniversary?'

'Yeah, Belle called me up on Christmas Day and we haven't looked back since.' He seemed pleased (and drunk), she seemed hesitant (and drunk).

'That's lovely,' he scorned, 'but I meant that an _anniversary_, by definition, cannot be for a week.'

It was probably being unnecessarily cold, but Gold felt unjustly hostile towards this bearded imbecile, with his ridiculous selection of facial-hair patterned shirts. Tonight's monstrous clothing was adorned with differently styled moustaches.

Irony was in every follicle of Beardy's being, and that seemed to make him "cool". Gold struggled to understand this. To him, doing something ironically was a terrible reason to do it. If you like coffee and reading, you go to the library-cum-coffee shop. If you don't really like either, go somewhere else. To Gold, being ironically cool required an unfathomable twist on logic and these complicated irony-buffs had been ruining his favourite place for years. And now, one of them was draping themselves around Belle! Naturally, he was most angry about the coffee shop, but he also felt Belle deserved better.

Gold was turning as bitter as his favoured Java coffee … until:

'He sounds like you, babe,' Charlie snorted, nudging Belle with his nose. 'She's always correcting me like that' – he did a horrible imitation of her accent – "an anniversary happens yearly".' Then Charlie put up a hand between Belle and himself, as though protecting her from what he was about to say: 'I'll tell you a secret Mr. Gold. I could care less about the exact definition of "anniversary".'

'So you care a little.'

'Huh?'

'Don't confuse him,' Belle chuckled, gently lowering her week-long lover's hand, and resting her head on his broad shoulder. 'He's had too many Buds to understand.'

Gold felt it would probably take a lot more than sobriety for Beardy to understand, but there was no need to talk the man down to Belle. After all, she seemed happy, perhaps he was the Prince Charming she so desired and certainly deserved.

'TEN!' someone from the crowd yelled, signalling the countdown.

'It's time,' Belle beamed, taking Gold's hand in hers.

'Nine!'

The whole crowd was joining in, and a circle had started to form.

'Eight!'

Strangers were sharing drinks with strangers.

'Seven!'

Neighbours were hugging like brothers.

'Six!'

Belle still hadn't let go of his hand.

'Five!'

She beamed up at him.

'Four!'

She was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

'Three!'

Gold had a flash of inspiration. He would kiss her. At midnight. Like the handsome stranger and the heroine had in her burned book.

'Two!'

It made sense. It was why she was running her thumb over his knuckles. It was why she hadn't let him go home. It was why she was still smiling at him.

'One!'

Gold felt Belle's hand slip away from his own and she turned into Charlie's embrace, their lips meeting in a sloppy mess.

Gold staggered backwards. He felt as though he'd taken a bullet to the chest, the pain snatching his breath away. He leant heavily on his cane; he'd have collapsed without it. He made his way through the throbbing, cheering crowd. He was desperate to reach his house. People were bumping him from all sides. One guy accidentally kicked Gold's cane away as part of a frantic dance. The man just about caught Gold before he fell to the ground.

'Sorry, mate,' he chuckled, once Gold was returned upright.

'Quite alright, dearie,' Gold seethed through his teeth. He didn't have the energy to wield his clout in the city over the man's head and bury him under threats of joblessness, homelessness and general hopelessness. On any other night, he might have done, but not now. He just wanted to be free of the crowd. He needed freedom from the images that were searing into his brain. He craved the safety of his empty house.

'Let me get you a drink, to say sorry' the stranger insisted, slapping Gold heartily on the back. 'Gotta bring the year in right.'

'Not necessary,' he waved his hand, and continued his dogged attempts to reach his home.

'Well, Happy New Year then,' the man called after him. From the cheer of the crowd, he'd resumed his bizarre Irish jig. In Gold's experience, it was impossible for any celebration to pass without a drunken man with Irish roots doing a jig of some kind.

People were hugging Gold as he shoved his way between friends and families, others ruffled his hair or patted him on the back, all shouted:

'Happy New Year.'

It didn't feel happy, and although the year might technically have been new, nothing actually _was_ new. Everything was exactly as it had always been. He returned to the same house he'd always owned, plagued by the same ghosts he still couldn't shake, and the same rumours he was tired of running from.

Outside the whizzing, fizzing and banging signalled the beginning of the firework display. There were whoops and cheers from the appreciative crowd. Gold just slid slowly to the cold, wooden floor, until his knees folded up to his chest.

This was the loneliest he had ever felt.


	8. Chapter 8

Gold didn't spot Belle until his arms were full of her. He was just on his way to the coffee shop for his daily dose of caffeine and fiction, when she had come flying out of a side door and ran straight into him. She was a mess, hair tangled, shoes barely on and she would not look up for the gum-covered floor.

'Sorry,' she sniffed, rubbing at her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.

'Quite okay, Belle,' he hummed, holding her shoulders as she steadied herself. She looked up.

'Oh.' She just about brought herself to smile at him. 'Mr Gold, it's … I'm…. Oh, I'm such a mess.' She patted the knots and tangles that surrounded her face. 'I must look….'

'You look beautiful,' he breathed, before he had chance to stop himself. He'd been thinking about her too much, dreaming that he'd told her she was beautiful on New Year's Eve, wishing he hadn't been such a coward. It was only natural that now his subconscious would take over and render him a foolhardy idiot.

'I do?' she asked, eyes shining. There was a sadness deep within them and Gold wished her could remove it for her, but all he could offer was a simple nod of reassurance and a whispered:

'Yes.'

She gave him a stronger smile and pushed a few flyaway wisps of hair away from her face.

'You're always so sweet, Mr Gold. People couldn't be more wrong about you.'

'I do doubt that, dearie,' he muttered. 'But I am rather,' he searched for the right word and fixed on, 'complicated. There are many sides to me, many angles.'

'I don't think you're that complicated.' Belle shook her head fondly. 'You just like to think you are. When I look at you, I see a good man, who's lost himself to other people's rumours and speculation.'

'You're not one to listen to rumours?'

'I've always preferred a story with substance to a tabloid tall tale,' she said.

He believed her and he smiled. He couldn't help it. Despite what he knew about her situation with Charlie, and despite his own sorry existence as the perpetual loner, there was something comforting about meeting someone who just got you; someone who didn't feel worlds apart from everything you believed in. She made him feel less lonely in a world where he'd always been alone.

Maybe he could repay the favour now. She'd been crying when they'd collided, perhaps he could offer a small crumb of comfort; or a coffee and cake of comfort at least.

'Can I buy you a drink?' he asked, gesturing to the coffee shop.

'Thank you, but there's something I have to do … alone.'

'If something's troubling you, you would be better to talk to someone. Where is that barista boyfriend of yours?'

'He doesn't understand,' she sighed. 'He thought he was doing something really sweet. He wasn't to know.'

'Know what?' Gold asked. He tried to seem gentle, but any man who could make a woman like Belle cry was a complacent fool who didn't appreciate what he had. 'What did he do?'

'Nothing, just the book … the burned one. He bought me a brand new one for Christmas and today, when I returned from work, I found he'd tidied up my flat and thrown my old book out … the one with the message from Jenni Jottings and…. I know it's just a book, I shouldn't be so upset but….'

'No, no.' He cut her off before she had chance to wind herself up into a teary mess. 'That book was your talisman. It was your reminder not to give up hope. A reminder to follow your dreams and become an author.'

She blinked at him. He thought he'd said something wrong, but she just threw her arms around his neck and whispered "thank you" in his ear.

Immediately uncomfortable, he pushed her to arm's length. He couldn't have her that close and not breathe in the smell of her fruity shampoo or tell her that she was perfect.

'I didn't do anything, dearie…'

'You understand.'

'… but I could.'

'Could what?' she frowned, her forehead creasing gently.

'Jenni Jottings is doing some special verses for our Premier Valentines Card range,' Gold shrugged. 'If you were to come to the office on Friday, around midday, I'm sure she could be persuaded to write you a message in your new novel.'

'Really?' she asked, blinking excitedly. 'Really?'

'On one condition,' he said, holding up a long finger to really emphasise his point.

'What is it?' she asked, with more than a hint of intrigue.

'Promise me you won't give up on your dream. Promise me you'll keep writing and that you'll start sending off manuscripts, and entering competitions.'

She stared back at him, head cocked to one side, puzzlement etched in the crinkles of her face, and then she asked something that completely threw him:

'Why do you care so much?'

'I don't _care_, dearie,' he scoffed. 'I just hate to see good talent go to waste.'

'Of course,' she nodded. He suspected that she didn't believe him, but he had no time to dwell on that because she took his hand – the one that wasn't on the cane – in both of hers and whispered:

'I promise not to give up.'

'Well then I promise to arrange the meeting.'

'Oh,' she threw her arms around him again, her enthusiasm nearly bowling him over. 'You are the most wonderful man.'

He wanted to tell her that it was in fact_ she_ who was wonderful. He wanted to tell her that she deserved someone who could understand her, who treated her like the princess she was. But the reality was that even though Gold found himself falling for her, he was not the prince that she was worthy of. He never would be.

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><p><strong>I just want to make a quick point of saying that this chapter was already written and proofread before I watched yesterday's episode. The fact that Belle and Rumple (in the episode) had almost exactly the same exchange as Belle and Gold (in this chapter) amused me greatly. Also, the "Rumple saves Belle" scene in the episode was cute. (I'm pretending that was where the episode finished and that the metal glove, Gold's dark side, and the town line don't exist.)<strong>

**So, whilst I prepare to prance about in blissful denial for 3 and half months, I hope you enjoyed this latest encounter. Next one should be up soon, but I'm doing just a little redrafting. I'm attempting to remove some melodrama – we've had enough of that in this fandom! – and I always intended for this fic to be held together by a promise of hope.**

**Love to all of you who are reading,  
>Sisi…xx<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks to wiggles247, echofinley and lattelady for reviewing the last chapter. It's great to hear feedback and comments, it really helps me shape my writing and the fic's plot. **

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><p>Everything was happening like she was living a nightmare; out of focus, out of control and beyond reality. Gold had presented her with an amazing gift. A second chance to talk to Jenni Jotting's, a second chance to have her book signed, a second chance at hope. But she was throwing it away. Fate had conspired against her.<p>

She'd spent the morning at Charlie's flat above the coffee shop, because it was only a short walk to Gold's Card Factory. But, despite it only being around the corner, a storm managed to blow her umbrella inside out and dump a river-load of rain all over her smart clothes by the time she'd reached the street corner. Determined not to miss her chance and knowing that a good author would not be put off by a little (or a lot) of rain, she continued to fight her way against the howling wind. Regardless of her persistent optimism, the world wasn't finished with her yet.

As she tried to cross the road, she got her heel caught in the drain, trapping her to the spot. She blinked past the rain, which dripped from her hair, catching in her eyelashes as she tried to undo the fiddly shoe-buckle. She managed it eventually and put her foot down in a puddle, which soaked through her tights. Of course it did!

'Oh, come on,' she growled at the shoe, as she crouched in the gutter trying to free it from its cast-iron prison. She kept glancing up at the road, it would be fitting for an enormous lorry to drive past now and splash an oily puddle all over her. None came.

She didn't, however, intend to test fate any longer and yanked extra hard on the shoe. A few twists, grunts and internal curses later, it was free. Or at least the foot-part was. The heal, on the other hand, was still sticking out of the drain like Excalibur.

That wouldn't do. If someone fell on it, or a bicycle rode into it, it could hurt somebody. She'd wasted more time, bashing the heel down until it fell into the drain below. The distant plop of the heal from her favourite pair of shoes landing in sewage water was probably a pretty apt metaphor for her life. And here was the lorry to spread oily doom over her cream coat. She leapt out the way, but only just. A few black spots appeared on her already ruined tights.

By the time she reached the office, it was half past midday, and Mr Gold had been quite specific about being on time. Miss Jottings was a busy woman. She would certainly have left by now, but Belle went in anyway, knowing – if nothing else – she'd have to explain herself to Gold. She was just worrying about the watery footprints she was leaving on the tiled reception floor and dreaming up how to phrase the apology when Mr Gold appeared.

'What are you waiting down here?' he demanded. 'Did my receptionist not buzz you through?' he glared at the oblivious woman behind the reception and snapped: 'I told you that Miss French was to be let straight up.'

'Sorry, Mr Gold,' she breathed quickly. Belle felt compelled to stick up for her, but Mr Gold was already steering her to the lift and asking what had happened to her shoes.

'It's a long story,' Belle sighed. 'I'm really sorry that I missed Jenni Jottings. You must be angry after you did such a nice thing and….'

'Missed her?' Gold interrupted. 'You haven't missed her. She's waiting for you.'

Belle was stunned into silence and didn't recover until Gold had delivered her to his office and swung open the door. Sat behind Gold's desk, spinning a pen idly around in her fingers was Jenni Jottings.

'You're still here,' Belle breathed.

'Hmm.' The author didn't look too pleased about the situation. 'Mr Gold wouldn't let me leave.'

'Oh, he's….' but the compliment died on Belle's lips as she turned to find the man gone, and the door shut. Mr Gold had opted to give them some privacy. 'I'm so grateful to him for organising this,' Belle explained, pulling the book from her bag. She'd wrapped it in a carrier bag just to ensure it stayed dry. She was going to protect it with her life.

'Could you just sign inside the front cover?' she asked, sliding it across the desk towards Jenni. She ended up gushing, just like she had last time, about how wonderful Jenni's work was, how she found herself lost in the story and the words, and had developed a weird crush on the fictional, handsome stranger.

'I feel like its life imitating art,' Belle admitted headily. 'I had this boyfriend, and he was a bit… Well, he wasn't for me, you know.'

'We've all been there,' Jenni hummed, as she wrote her note. 'But you're with a new guy now?'

'Yes,' she nodded.

'Mr Gold?'

'No, no,' Belle laughed the notion away uneasily. 'He's not my boyfriend, he's more of a … Fairy God Father. He just keeps turning up to save the day.'

Jenni apologised quickly, but she didn't seem sorry as she explained: 'He seemed so invested in you having this book signed, I just assumed. So where is your handsome prince?'

'At home, his home,' Belle explained. 'He didn't want to come because of the rain.' She gestured awkwardly to the window. The raindrops were hammering against the glass, but only made a noise similar to rustling paper bags.

'Yes, you do look a little like you swam here.'

'My umbrella broke, but I'd have swum here if I'd had to,' Belle laughed, but quick found herself second guessing whether that sentiment was more creepy than sweet. 'Thank you … by the way,' she gabbled, before the words could gather too much attention. 'I really didn't think I'd get chance to have a book signed by you again.'

'Again? What happened to the first one?'

'My boyfriend threw it out.'

'The bad one?'

'No, the current one, the old one burned it first….' The words escaped her mouth before she could stop them and Belle realised that she sounded like one of those foolish girls in Romance books who can't see that the men around her are scum. It wasn't like that, though. Charlie was perfect, he'd just made a mistake. 'It must sound like I have terrible taste in men,' she giggle anxiously.

'I wouldn't worry about it, darling,' Jenni mused as she packed up her things into a large designer handbag and handed back the book. 'You seem to have a thoroughly wonderful taste in Fairy God Fathers.'

Belle didn't have chance to dwell on the comment, as that was the moment that Mr Gold decided to re-emerge and grumpily demand his office back.

'We're done,' Jenni nodded. 'It was a pleasure to meet you, Belle.' She held out her hand to shake it, which was when Belle had a thought:

'Do you think I could read the Valentines' verse you wrote? I bet it's wonderful.'

'The what?'

'Come on dearie, don't take up all my time,' Gold grumbled, swiftly taking Belle by the shoulders and steering her out of the office. He virtually dragged her to the lift, moving disturbingly quickly for a man with a limp and a cane.

Belle didn't even have chance to thank him before the lift doors were shutting and taking her back down to the real world. As she walked through the sizable reception readying herself for the oncoming storm, she opened the book and read the inscription:

'Dear Belle, Sometimes our greatest adventure is a love that's closer than you think. Follow your heart. Love, Jenni x'

Belle read the inscription, over and over. She'd asked for a repeat of "never give up on your dreams", but Jenni had given her something entirely new. Although Belle wanted to convince herself the message was a reference to the novel's storyline, she had a feeling that Jenni had two other characters in mind. And why hadn't she seemed to know about the Valentine's card? Come to think of it, how had Gold known so precisely when she'd arrived?

Perhaps he was magic? As though to prove the theory, the receptionist sidled up to Belle and gave her a bag containing a cheap plastic poncho.

'It's not much,' the woman said apologetically. 'But it's all I could find.'

'I don't….' Belle frowned, taking the item from her. It had the words "Emergency Poncho" scrawled across it.

'Mr Gold said your umbrella was broken. He told me to find you something for the rain.'

'He did?'

'Sorry it's not more,' she said. The phone started to ring and the receptionist scurried off to get it. Belle realised in that split second that she'd been wrong all those weeks ago when she'd confidently told Gold "I see you." She'd only seen a fraction of him then, but she saw all of him now. She _really_ saw him, and she realised how much of a fool she'd been.

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><p><strong>Sorry for any errors, I am editing at midnight so I'm probably editing mistakes "in" to the chapter instead of "out" of it.<strong>

**Please leave comments and feedback, if you feel generous. If not, thank you for your silent support. ;) I love you all more than Rumpelstiltskin loves Belle (who is his true love, not bloody power!)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you to carpelibrium, mynameisagent, Lattelady, NicoleMuenchSeidel, VyeLoyomBrightwarrior, and .kanobi for reviewing the last chapter. I really appreciate you taking to time to leave a comment and many of you have helped me make important plot and character decisions about this fic (and feel less despairing over Rumbelle). **

**Diolch yn fawr i chi am eich sylwadau caredig!**

**Here's the TENTH "Encounter".**

**Enjoy….**

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><p>It was late. The streetlamp outside was flickering and the office's heating had gone off. Gold had wrapped himself in his coat and scarf, trying desperately to keep warm as he perused "The Gold Selection" of crappy Valentine cards. They were all standing proudly on his desk, and they were all awful. Each one cheesier than the last, and the more he stared, the more he hated the flowery images and cutesy hugging bears.<p>

Love usually felt like a bleak and hopeless black hole, but the cards were just a punch-to-the-gut reminder that people – however foolish they were being – genuinely felt an emotion similar to those expressed by the card. He flicked the face of the bear on the closest cart and it fell flat. He sighed heavily.

The time on his computer read 9.51pm. He should have been at home, relaxing. He _could_ have been. This wasn't urgent. It could wait until the morning, or next week. But ever since New Year's Eve, Gold's home had felt a little too big and a lot too empty. Even his bed had been too vast for such a small man, with such a small life. This cramped office, filled with work, numbers, and responsibility, was something he could hang his life on.

A gentle knock on the door distracted him. He wondered if that "don't leave without permission" conversation with his secretary had been take a little too seriously. Perhaps he'd forgotten to send her home; damn it. Now she'd want to be paid for having sat at her desk doing nothing since 5pm.

'Come in,' he muttered, leaning back in his chair and running a hand down his face. Now that he was no longer staring at the screen, the tiredness was starting to creep in.

The door opened, and a face he wasn't expecting peeped around crack.

'Belle,' he breathed, getting to his feet abruptly, and bumping his knee against the desk in his haste. All the cards fell down, which was probably some kind of metaphor for how any attempt at love was futile. Or just an indicator that he should have gone home hours ago.

'Are you okay?' she asked anxiously, stepping towards him and then thinking better of it.

'I'm fine,' he brushed off the incident, as though it was nothing, but he felt like a fool. Something about her made him feel a little foolish all the time. 'What are you doing here?'

'Oh, well, I….' She dipped her head forward, her chestnut curls hiding her face. 'I mean I….'

'We have spoken about the-'

'Not finishing sentences,' she cut him off with a smile. 'Yes, sorry. I guess I'm just a bit nervous.'

'Now, what reason could you possibly have to be nervous?' It was a genuine question. She was intoxicating. She took his breath away, _he_ was the one who could suffocate here, not her. But Belle was looking at him with a strange expression and he realised with a sinking heart:

'You're nervous of me.'

'No,' she gabbled quickly. 'No, not at all. Just of … what you'll say.'

'I'm sorry, dearie, but I'm no mind-reader,' he leaned heavily against his desk. 'You're going to have to be a little less cryptic.'

'It was something Jenni Jottings said,' she began awkwardly. She was fiddling with the ends of her hair, and couldn't quite keep her feet still beneath her. 'Or something she didn't say, and then there was the poncho, and the book, and … well, everything really.'

'Is this what happens when you finish sentences?' he asked, with a small smile. 'Rambling?'

'I didn't expect to be so….' She laughed breathily, as she realised that – once again – she'd left the sentence dangling in the air.

This was all fear. It was an emotion he recognised. Gold had seen it on every employee who'd every dared to ask to leave early, or have a pay rise, or a day off. It was the expression of every business partner he'd done a deal with and every neighbour who'd heard the rumour of his involvement with hit men and drugs barons. It was the look he'd seen on the face of everyone he'd ever met for years.

'See, the thing is, I've never been very good at relationships,' she said, in a sudden rush of words that knocked Gold completely off guard. Relationships? 'I guess I thought that I was waiting for a handsome prince … but maybe that's not a reality. I've probably read too many books.'

'It's not possible to read too many books, dearie.'

'Well, chasing princes has brought me nothing but heartbreak. I don't want that anymore,' she revealed quietly. She'd fixed him with those eyes and he could barely look away. 'I want someone real. Someone who understands me, someone who stands by me in the world instead of paints it as evil and protects me from it.'

Gold furrowed his brow. If anything he was more confused now than he'd been _before_ she'd began her explanation. She was yet to manage an explanation, instead she'd taken him into a fantasy world and was regaling him with what sounded like lyrical journal entries.

'What are you saying?'

'Have you ever heard of Granny's?'

'No.'

'Well, it's this new restaurant-diner in town. It's supposed to do amazing hamburgers. Maybe,' she played with her hair furiously, 'maybe, we could go together some time?'

'Together?'

'Like … a … date,' the words were slow and torturous from her plump, pink lips.

'Oh, I'd like that … so much.'

'Good.'

And then he remembered: 'What about your beardy boyfriend?'

'Charlie?' she asked. 'That was an _impulse _decision … based on spending too long with my father over Christmas.'

Gold didn't understand, but there was so much he didn't understand at this point that he could do little more than lean against his desk looking confused.

'He didn't get me,' Belle explained, 'not like you do. Besides,' – she took some slow, purposeful steps towards him. Gold might have stepped away had the desk not held him in place – 'I could never truly give my heart to someone as superficial as he.'

'I-is that right?' Gold stammered as the space between them closed to almost nothing. She was close enough to touch him now, if she felt so inclined.

'So what do you say … one date,' she bartered. 'One, little hamburger at Granny's.' She smiled, an earth shattering, heart-breaking kind of smile as she asked: 'What do you have to lose?'

'Belle, I-' he began to protest. 'I'm not a good man. You've heard the rumours.'

'I once told you that I see you. And that's still true; truer than ever,' she reached out and took his hands in hers. Her hands were so soft, and gentle. He was worried he'd break her if he squeezed too tightly. 'I don't see the monster you so wish everyone could see.' She brushed a thumb over his knuckles and his stomach clenched like it had when his teenage crush had first smiled at him. This felt oddly new and exciting, and certainly unfamiliar. 'I see that you're a good man, and I really would like to know you better.'

Gold stared at her. She was like a Disney Princess; big, hopeful eyes and an optimism that shone through despite all the hardships she'd faced. He owed it to her – he owed it to himself – to not let cowardice stand in his way; but the thought of a date made him anxious. He hadn't been on one in such a long time, and Belle truly deserved something good in her life. Gold very much doubted that he was her "something good", but if she kept looking at him like _that_ then he'd certainly try to be.

'Hamburger at Granny's,' he agreed, his voice catching feebly in his throat. 'Sounds good.'

'Great,' she slid a number from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. 'Call me to arrange the details.'

And then she numbed any chance of a reply, as she pushed herself onto her tiptoes and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. He was dumbfounded. He felt seventeen again and it was embarrassing. He could barely choke out a "goodbye" as she sauntered away, with a sultry:

'See you soon, Mr Gold.'

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading!<strong>

**Only two "Encounters" to go (though it would be fair to say, the chapters are getting muuuch longer!) **


	11. Chapter 11

So far, their date had been a bit of a disaster. Belle looked beautiful in a sweet, pale-blue dress. Her eyes were illuminated and she lit up the room. Gold, on the other hand, looked like a fool in a suit and it didn't matter how many times he'd fixed his tie, it still felt off-centre. He'd fumbled the conversation a few times in the car, and it had only become worse once they'd reached the restaurant.

First, he'd been too nervous to hold his menu properly. Then he'd said something cringe-worthy about condiments and now, he'd knocked over his own glass of Ice Tea, drenching the table cloth and almost ruining Belle's outfit.

'Do I make you nervous, Mr Gold?' she smiled, warmly taking his hand as he desperately tried to mop up the mess he'd made with serviettes.

'What? Of course not,' he whispered, but he had a horrible suspicion that she would have seen right through his lies. 'I just … look at this mess I….'

'It's okay,' she laughed, pulling a few serviettes from the dispenser on the table and dabbing at the excess water. 'The table cloths absorbed most of it. My dress survived.'

'I'm so sorry,' he shook his head. He knew he was ruining this chance with her, but something about her disabled all his composure. He felt horribly exposed and weak.

'Don't be,' she reached for his hand and held it tight across the table. 'I'm having a good time.'

'You are?' he smiled back.

'Of course,' she squeezed his fingers. Gold smiled back at her and raised his hand to catch the eye of a particularly miserable looking waitress.

'Could we have another Iced Tea?'

The waitress scowled and eyed the dark mark on the table cloth with disdain. It was as though his clumsiness was a direct insult to her. He almost made a comment and said something about her sulky expression or her terrible hostess skills, but Belle was still holding his hand and it distracted him.

When he looked at her, she was beaming. She genuinely did seem to be having a good time, as unfathomable as that was.

'So tell me,' Belle hummed, when the waitress had stomped away, 'the rumours, how many are true?'

'Rumours, by definition, are generally untrue,' he answered wistfully, leaning back in his chair. His name was infamous enough to have made a villain of him all over the town. People would know who he was and they would see him sat with a woman who just radiated kindness and trusting. He could only imagine the rumours that were being conjured up right at this moment. They would certainly create some farfetched theory that they could wrap up in a fact and gift to everyone they knew.

'So your wife?' she asked slowly. She seemed anxious, and rightly so. She was basically asking him if the last person he'd promenaded around the city was now swimming with the fishes. He sighed, perhaps it was time to tell the truth … to Belle, at least.

'She's in Costa Rica.' And bitterly: 'living off _my_ money.'

'But she's not….'

'Dead? No.' He grimaced. 'Though sometimes I wish she was, it would certainly save me lot of money.'

Belle chuckled gently, and shook her head.

'I'm not joking,' he warned.

'I know,' she smiled fondly. 'And your fortune? No European drug barons?'

'I inherited my fortune from my father,' he answered.

'So none of the stories are true?'

'Well, my father was Scottish, so he_ is_ European, _and _he was an oil baron, which is lexically 50% the same as drugs baron.'

'A simple "no" would have done,' she replied. She had a look in his eyes that took him – once again – to that time in the coffee shop when she'd threatened him with those three words: "I see you". At the time, he'd thought very little of it, but the longer this strange thing between them continued to unravel itself, he realised that it might just be the most important, and most truthful, sentence anyone had ever said to him.

'No,' he confirmed. 'None of the stories are true.'

'And yet you let people believe them?'

'I don't really care what they believe,' he shrugged. 'And a little fear never hurts in business. I've struck several very lucrative deals, due to my deep criminal connections.'

She quirked her head to the side, eyes gleaming in the orangey glow of candle lamp. She was breath-taking and, although Gold would never understand why she chose to look at him like that, he vowed – in that moment – that one day he would be worthy of her gaze.

'Do you like that people are scared of you, Mr Gold?'

'I don't _dislike_ it,' he answered honestly, nose crinkling at the admission.

'You're not nearly as beastly as people think.'

'Well, don't tell anyone … I'd hate to ruin their fun.'

'You're secret's safe with me,' she promised. He was so amazed by her in this moment that he was sure he was wearing a goofy kind of expression. His stomach and heart were fluttering and he felt horribly like a cliché.

He knew that if his employees saw him like this, his reputation would be in tatters. Mr Gold was not a man to regularly wine and dine a beautiful woman. He was not one for giggled conversations or uncomfortable flirting. There was something simply perfect about the whole evening; Gold thought that might even feel happy.

He realised later that he shouldn't have allowed his guard to slip. He'd been drunk on her warmth and the smell of her perfume, mixed with shades of her shampoo. He'd forgotten that he was cursed to live out his days in his own dark castle alone.

'So, tell me how you managed to convince Jenni Jottings to come to your office.'

'I told you, she was writing a passage for a Valentines Card.'

'But you can't tell me which card, _or _what passage?'

He smiled weakly. She wasn't buying it, but he wasn't about to tell her the truth. It was too embarrassing.

'How did you get in contact with her?'

'An old acquaintance of mine is a publisher,' he hummed, taking a sip of his brand new Iced Tea. 'I'll give you his number if you'd like. Give yourself a chance to live that dream of yours.'

'Oh, I have news,' she was reminded, grabbing at his hands again. Being across the table from one another limited any real opportunities for contact, so this weird handholding was all they had. 'I took your advice. I've been entering all these short story competitions. All different kinds and, guess what?'

'What?'

'I won! This publishing company _really _liked my story.'

'Well, that's amazing.'

'I know,' she grinned. 'I've been so excited, I just wanted to tell everyone but,' she gazed down at their joined hands, 'I thought you should know first. It's thanks to you that I even entered in the first place.'

'But, _you_,' he insisted, 'are the one who wowed them.' She smiled, but her expression was a little strange, a sort of non-committal smile like she couldn't quite understand him. It was the expression he saw on the faces of international businessmen whilst they were waiting for their translator to translate. She struggled to comprehend that anyone could believe in her and it made Gold angry at Belle's father, and Gaston and even that fool Charlie for allowing her to lose her faith like this.

'What's the prize?' he moved the conversation on before he allowed himself to become too angry. The grumpy waitress had slammed two plates of food onto the table, and it was taking all of Gold's composure not to yell at her, if he coupled that with thoughts of Belle's past, he might just use his cane to smash a glass or two.

'Oh, the prize isn't important,' she dismissed quickly, changing the subject with a nod to the waitress. 'She's not very happy, is she?'

'A subscription to Writers World?' Gold guessed the prize.

'Perhaps she believes the rumours about you?'

'A free notepad and pen?'

'Or maybe her boss is a tyrant?'

'A chance to enter the next competition for free?'

'Or, perhaps she's a werewolf. It will be a full moon tonight.'

'Or is the story going to be published in a magazine?'

'Are you listening to me?'

'You mean your conversation about the werewolf waitress with the tyrant boss.'

Belle just pulled a face similar to a petulant child, but that wasn't important, what was important was finding out:

'Why won't you tell me what the prize is?'

'The prize was just silly,' she said firmly, picking up her fork and stabbing it into a chip.

'Tell me,' Gold pressed. If nothing else, he was curious now.

She chewed the chip for a while, blue eyes fixed right on him. She seemed to be weighing up some options but eventually, she swallowed and said:

'It was a scholarship to a writing course, in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Apparently being in the home of The Bard, will help us channel our inspiration.'

'That's amazing,' Gold gasped. She couldn't have just won a crappy magazine writing competition. That was the prize of a world-wide publishing company competition. How could she think that it wasn't important? 'When do you leave?'

'I'm not going,' she laughed off the suggestion like it was utterly ludicrous. 'It's a yearlong course. I can't just pick up and move halfway across the world for a year.'

Gold processed the information slowly. The course was a year. She'd be gone for a year. She would change in that time, she'd grow and change and he would stay the same. She wouldn't be the same person, when she returned. There wouldn't be this connection anymore.

He sounded choked and hoarse when he asked: 'Why not?'

'I don't need to be in Stratford-Upon-Avon to write,' she dismissed. 'And,' she reached for his hand, 'I've only just found you. I'm not giving up on this for half a chance at an overcrowded writing school in England. It probably won't come to anything anyway.'

'But it might,' Gold whispered. He realised in horror that she was planning to give up her lifelong dream for an old cripple with a dark heart and a cynical view of the world. He would not let her destroy herself for him.

'I'm not worth it,' he said suddenly. It was as though all his thoughts couldn't stay inside anymore.

'I think you are.'

'No, Belle. You have to follow your dream. You gave it up for your father, and then for Gaston. I won't let you give it up for me too. I'd never forgive myself and eventually, you wouldn't forgive me either.'

'What do you mean?' she frowned. 'How can you "not let me"?'

'I won't answer the phone if you call. I won't come to the door if you ring. I _won't _be the reason you forfeit your dreams.'

'B-but what about us?' her face was creasing like she was trying not to cry.

'After today,' he whispered, the tears were stinging at his eyes, 'this has to be over.'

Her eyes were shining with tears, one leaked free and rolled down her cheek slowly. Seeing her like this broke his heart, but he knew that this what she needed. She'd been holding back on her dreams for too long and he was not worth ruining her life over. She'd realise that eventually, and when she did she'd resent him for trapping her. He had to do this. He had to set her free.

'Okay,' she whispered eventually. 'I will go. But, I refuse to believe that this is over.'

'It has to be.'

'No.' She opened her large bag and pulled out a book. Her book; burned, singed and battered … but still standing. After everything it had been put through.

'Charlie threw that out,' he stated stupidly, pointing at it with a long finger.

'He did. But luckily, the bin men didn't come that day. I had to pick it out of the trash.' Her nose crinkled at the explanation, as though she were back there smelling the refuse. 'Don't judge me.'

'I would never judge you.'

She smiled, which reached her eyes and spilt a few more tears down her cheeks.

'Here,' she pushed the book across the table towards him.

'I can't take that,' he held up his hands to stop her. 'It's yours. I know how important it is to you.'

'Which is why _you _must promise to return it.'

'Belle, I-'

'Promise me,' she cut him off. She was weeping now, truly weeping, and she was probably gathering the attention of the restaurant.

'But-'

'Promise me, please.'

'I promise,' he whispered, taking the book in his hands. It felt so fragile with its blackened edges and ashen centre. It smelt faintly of burning wood and plastic, but mostly of Belle's perfume. He slid it into his deep pocket.

It was at that moment that the busy body owner of the restaurant appeared and asked if everything was okay. She was looking meaningfully at a distraught Belle, as though the owner expected Belle to jump up and scream "save me from this awful beast!"

She didn't. Instead, she wiped her tears away with an embarrassed laugh and a "what must I look like", before telling Granny:

'We're fine. He just gave me the most wonderful gift and I….' She gestured to her tear-stained face. 'I guess, I'm just over-emotional.'

Gold watched Granny eye Belle's Iced Tea and he could see the cogs of her over-active imagination kick-starting the rumour mill. Over-emotional, wonderful gift, no alcohol; yes, Belle would be the unfortunate girl Mr Gold had got pregnant by the time Granny made it back to kitchen.

'Hey,' Belle brought him away from the spiralling rumours and back to reality. 'What do you say we finish this date with a stroll? I'm not quite ready to say "goodbye" yet.'

'Well, that sound's wonderful,' he agreed. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to say "goodbye". He knew it was going to kill him to have been this close and to have lost her all over again, but he'd been foolish to allow himself to get lost in Belle's Mills and Boon life. He'd forgotten that reality was rarely so fated. Life often got in the way of romance, but now he had her book and he knew that he'd spend the rest of his life trying to give it back to her. After all, he'd made her a promise and Mr Gold was _not _a man who broke promises.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading. Still working out some kinks with the final chapter and it's nearly Christmas, so I'm not sure when the update will come. Certainly before the New Year.<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

The coffee shop wasn't what it used to me. There'd been a change of manager, and he'd blitzed through the exclusivity with commercial offers and sales on frothy milkshakes. Now, the place was becoming like any other over-priced, over-populated high street coffee bar. What the new manager had failed to realise was that Gold's offer to pour money into the shop to help it retain it's quiet dignity had not been a joke. He'd have paid a small fortune to have somewhere he felt comfortable and not alone.

Gold could seldom get to his table anymore. None of the barista's – except the manager – were able to recall his order. The books on the shelves hadn't been replaced for some time and they were being abused as coasters and serviettes, among other things. The place was falling apart around him, but he had nowhere else to go, and bitter loneliness chewed at his soul.

Gold pushed his way through the crowd and walked to his booth. There were three kids sat there, slurping various coloured milkshakes. One of them was using the books to build a semi-artistic tower, the others were fixated by their phones.

'Looks cool, don't it?' she asked, balancing a final book on the top like a room. 'C'mere, an' take a selfie with the tower so we can Snapchat it to Jen.'

Gold frowned. He was left wondering for a second if they were even speaking English. Perhaps if they actually read the books instead of using them as building blocks they'd know how to conjugate the verb "to do" correctly. Perhaps they'd know that a "selfie" is an insult to the language and that "_Snapchat"_ is a noun.

He almost told them, but instead, he kept his lips pressed tightly together and waited until the three girls were posed and pouting towards the camera.

He used his cane to knock the book tower over.

'Hey, what you doing man!' the gobbiest cried.

'Move,' he seethed.

'Wha'? Why?'

'You're in my seat.'

'Err, I don't see your name on it,' a second girl spat.

'Oh, it's there dearie,' he hissed. 'It's in the fibres of the cloth, in the coffee stains on the carpet and the smell of the books kept on that shelf.'

'You're weird,' the first girl concluded. It was probably a fair-enough assessment and he smiled crookedly at her, before leaning close and whispering:

'Move.'

'Look, man, we ain't going nowhere, right?'

'That's a double negative dearie, suggests you are going somewhere,' Gold explained, sliding into the booth on the opposite side to the girls. 'But you're welcome to stay as long as you don't disturb my reading.'

'You're totes weird,' the first girl stated, leaping to her feet. The phrase actually made Gold cringe. When did schools stop teaching people how to speak properly? Or should he be blaming their parents? Or perhaps the media?

'Come on, let's go,' said one.

'I'm going to tell the manager,' a second threatened.

'Ooo, please do,' Gold smirked. 'It's been a while since I've spoken to Charlie.'

It was barely even five minutes before Charlie was at his table. He was carrying Gold's usual coffee and wearing a solemn expression.

'You can't keep kicking people out of this booth,' he said, placing the beverage in front of Gold and sitting down in the seat the language-lugs had just vacated. Was Gold never going to get this booth to himself?

'Well, I wouldn't have to if you,' he pointed to the beardy idiot, 'stopped letting riffraff in.'

'Oh, I'm trying but you keep coming back anyway.'

Gold stared back coldly in response.

'It was a joke,' Charlie tried, with half a smile.

Gold kept staring.

'Oh, forget it,' he groaned, pushing himself back to his feet. He was about to leave when he said:

'I'm nervous too.'

'Too?'

'You're shaking.'

'I assure you I'm not,' but it was a lie and it was foolish. He was shaking, so hard that the seat was vibrating and his legs were jiggling with nervous energy. It had just been so long since….

'You don't have to pretend with me, Gold,' Charlie said steadily. 'I lost her too, you know. I was just as cut up about it as you were.'

'You, dearie?' he scorned. 'You change women like you change offensive shirts.'

'Another dig about the shirts, huh?'

'Well, you do insist on wearing them.'

Charlie paused and shook his head, with nothing but disdain etched on his ugly face:

'I'll never understand what she saw in you…'

That was, at least, something they could agree on.

'… but I know you'll never win her back.'

'You think _that's _why I'm here?' Gold laughed a little too hard at the suggestion. 'To win her back?'

'Isn't it?'

'Oh, dear no. I'm just returning something that belongs to her.'

'Well if that's all, I'd be happy to give it to her,' Charlie suggested, holding out a hand. What Gold looked at was a large hand covered with tiny burn marks; the plague of being a barista. There were a few dark smudges from handling coffee powder and his nails were chewed and dirty. But what Gold _saw _was a chance to avoid seeing Belle altogether, a chance to sidestep that horrible moment when he realised that any feelings they might almost have had were long gone.

He closed his eyes and felt for the book in his deep coat pocket.

'You know,' he looked straight in Charlie's dark eyes, 'she gave it to me to hold on to. I think I should be the one to give it back.'

'Suit yourself,' Charlie shrugged.

Gold waited until the man was gone, before pulling the book from his pocket. It still smelt of her a little, just beyond the ash and desperation. He hadn't looked at it for over a year. He'd simply locked it in a box and refused to think about it. It had worked until he'd seen the poster outside his once-favourite coffee shop two weeks ago announcing that "top selling author in the UK, Belle French, will be reading a passage from her book".

He'd told himself every day that he wasn't going to go, but he'd felt the burned book calling to him, or more importantly calling to Belle. He doubted the book was still her talisman. He doubted that she'd even recognise it if she saw it, but Mr Gold was a man of his word. So he was here, in this coffee shop he'd grown to hate, drinking a watery version of what _used _to be his favourite coffee served by a man who's shirt was decorated with sideburns, or ear hair, or whatever untrimmed, unkempt facial-fur abomination was currently hip … in an ironic way.

Gold had almost finished his coffee before Charlie appeared on the shabby stage. It was exactly the one that Jenni Jottings had stood on all that time ago. Belle would probably like that, if the fame of "UK's Best Selling Author" wasn't going to her head and she wasn't too good to remember that she'd once liked that wish-wash drivel that Jenni Jottings had written.

'It's the moment many of us are waiting for,' Charlie said, as though he was ring master about to announce a lion tamer. Belle deserved someone with a little more class to introduce her and her novel.

Gold had read it, of course he had. It was a literary masterpiece. A realistic story of unrequited love, which showed every character in a compassionate light, whilst not shying away from the darker side of human nature. It didn't have a hint of those fairy tales she'd always liked so much. It smacked of gloomy reality, which you'd give up on if it wasn't for those interwoven sparks of hope. Hope was too powerful an emotion for even a professional cynic like himself to ignore.

Hope was why he'd kept hold of that book for all these months. Hope was why he was sat in this coffee shop. Hope was why his stomach fluttered as the threadbare curtains were pushed aside and Belle appeared.

She was exquisite; more beautiful than even Gold remembered. Her smile was reaching right to those beautiful blue eyes and she was waving to a few chosen members of her audience. She was wearing a tartan tunic dress, which made her look a little Scottish, and reminded him of home, of a time when he'd belonged and hadn't been an outcast. Everything began to feel a little too perfect.

He had to remind himself that the dress was probably just some current fashion trend. Glancing around, he could see that plenty of other people in the coffee shop had some tartan patter on them; there was a girl with a tartan bag, and one with a tartan jacket with leather sleeves. Right, good. This was not some weird game fate was playing. He was just being foolish, seeing clues that didn't exist.

'Wow,' Belle said into a microphone that Charlie had handed her. 'I didn't expect there to be so many people.'

She'd picked up the mildest hint of an English accent, blurring in with Australian roots and her American twang.

'I can't believe it. I'm so grateful to all of you for coming.'

She lowered herself gracefully into the chair Charlie had provided. It was an armchair not dissimilar to the one Gold had in his own house, and again he had to shake his head free from a fantasy that Belle would look wonderful sitting in _his _arm chair, in _his _library reading.

'So,' she continued, pressing the creases from her dress, 'I thought I'd read a passage from my book and then, we could do a few Q&As. Then, if anyone wants, I'll be here to sign any books or talk to you in private afterwards, how does that sound?'

She didn't trail off on a single sentence, she didn't look at the ground or nervously fiddle with her hair. She'd matured into a confident woman, with a command of herself and of this audience. She didn't even _sound_ the same as when Gold had known her!

All at once he knew that coming here was a disaster.

Hadn't he promised himself on _that _New Years that he would no longer live in the past? Hadn't he stopped sopping at the door, pushed himself to his feet, poured himself a whiskey and toasted the future with the ghosts of his past? He'd been doing so well … until today. She wouldn't even want the bloody book if he gave it to her. She probably wouldn't even know what it was.

Belle's voice was made for storytelling. She'd inherited the British love of precise intonation, whilst retaining her elongated Australian vowels and American enthusiasm. Her accent was like a passport, showing up all the places she'd been in her life, the story showed all the dreadful emotions she'd felt. She was baring her soul in the reading of her novel, and it was bright white with purity.

Gold allowed the words to become blur into a peaceful background noise as he watched her. She'd been nothing more than a forgotten fantasy for so long that she didn't seem real anymore. His fingers anxiously brushed the cover of the burned book. Somewhere along the line, it had become his talisman too.

Then had been the Q&A. There were some daft questions: "Where actually are you from?" and "How much money do you make writing a book?". And there were some more typical questions: "Are the characters based on people you know?" and "How did you come up with the idea?". And then it was over, and people who wanted to have a book signed or ask a question to Belle had to line-up.

Gold had _no _intention of joining the line. He'd made the decision to wait until the melee had died down and he could slip the book to her without drawing any attention to himself, but then Charlie announced that:

'Miss French is a little short for time this evening, so be sure to join the queue if you want to speak to her and she'll see as many of you as she can.'

Brilliant!

That was how, divorcee, millionaire, supposed-loveless recluse, Mr Gold, found himself stood in a hipster's coffee shop, surrounded by imbecile teenagers with his cane in one hand and a burned book in the other. Of course, the three brats were behind him, and of course they couldn't keep their giggled-spite to themselves.

'Oh my god! He's totes old, right? Like he's got a cane.'

'And look at that book! How is Belle-Belle supposed to sign that? It's like burned.'

Gold tried to ignore them but he just couldn't. It was like the demons that were always in his head had escaped and were shouting at him … only with terrible grammar. He looked down at the book and knew that the best thing to do would be to take beardy up on his offer.

He beckoned the coffee shop's manager over, with a crook of his long finger. Charlie came straight to him and Gold handed over the book, with nothing more than a hissed:

'You'll make sure she gets it.'

'Of course.'

He left to a chorus of:

'Laters, Grandad!'

* * *

><p>Belle's hand was starting to ache as she signed another book. She loved meeting her fans, and hearing them quote their favourite part from her novel constantly frazzled her mind, but being in this coffee shop with all its history was only making her think of one person.<p>

She handed back her novel to the woman ahead of her and smiled for her twenty-fourth selfie of the day, when Charlie stood up on the stage and announced that they would be taking a five minute coffee break.

'Miss French will be back to sign some more books shortly.'

'What are you doing?' Belle demanded. She was grateful for Charlie setting up this opportunity in his coffee shop now, but ever since she'd got here and seen that _he _wasn't here, she'd grown tired of the old place and its old memories. 'I have to leave soon for that appearance in Barnes & Nobel.'

Charlie said nothing, he just held up the book. It was exactly as she'd left it, burned and worthless; junk to anyone who didn't know it. Junk to anyone except herself and the man who'd held onto it for all this time.

'Where is he?' she whispered, taking the book from Charlie and clutching it to her chest. She breathed it in, it smelt of him.

'He's just left. If you go now, you'll catch him.'

Belle didn't need to hear anything else. She darted through the curtains and out of the shop's side door. She burst out of it like a crazy person and she couldn't help remember that the last time she'd burst through that door like that, she'd collided with Gold. Not this time. She glanced up and down the street, but she couldn't spot him, but it was raining and everyone had black coats and umbrellas … unless. There. Just disappearing around the corner a man walking with a cane.

'Gold,' she whispered, blinking as the rain caught on her lashes. She looked down at her shoes. The last time she'd rushed to meet him in the rain, her heels had broken; she kicked them off and hung them limply from her fingers before chasing him down the streets. People stared at her as she quick-marched barefoot down the sidewalk, in nothing more than a dress.

She rounded the corner and shouted:

'Gold!'

He turned, and despite the twenty yard gap she felt it, that spark she'd felt all that time ago. He just stared, though to be fair, she must have looked insane. Her hair was plastered to her face and the rain was dripping from her nose, chin and fingertips. Her dress was clinging to her like it was made of Lycra and her feet were bare.

'What are you doing?' he scolded, limping purposely towards her. Unlike her, he had an umbrella, so he, unlike her, was as handsome as she remembered. His face etched with soft crinkles of concern and the grey flecks in his hair just visible. 'You'll freeze to death.'

'I c-couldn't just let you leave,' she stammered. Now that she'd stopped running, the cold was catching her breath away.

'Here,' he slid his large overcoat from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. It was warm and smelt like him, it was a smell she'd missed. He tried to ruin the moment with a grumpy: 'I've never given a woman so many coats before.' But Belle read people like she did books and saw "I've never cared about anyone as much before."

He was rubbing her bicep through the sleeves of the coat in a feeble attempt to warm her up, and muttering about getting her back to the coffee shop to keep warm, but Belle had more pressing concerns, concerns that when spoken sounded like a sob:

'Why did you run away?'

'Oh, Belle, sweetheart.' He stopped fussing, and gazed at her with so much self-doubt that it made her want to cry for him. He touched his fingers gently to her cheek. She didn't know if he was checking she was real or dislodging a stray bit of mascara, either way, his touch warmed her more than a coffee and a heater ever could. 'I didn't _want_ to leave,' he whispered. 'But you don't need me reminding you of the past. You're so much better now, you're stronger, you've had a career; you've travelled.'

'Which is why you right to push me away the first time,' she insisted. She wanted to take his hand, but one was occupied with a cane and the other with an umbrella. She was already soaked through, it was time for him to join her. She pulled the umbrella from his hand and dropped it to the floor before taking his hand in both of hers. 'You don't get to push me away again. You don't get to decide that you're not good enough. _I _make that decision.'

'But … I'm not a good man, Belle. You deserve so much more than….'

He trailed off, his eyes diverting to the floor, the front of his damp hair falling to cover his eyes.

'Hey,' Belle warned playfully, pushing his hair away so she could really see him. 'What have I told you about not finishing your sentences?'

He smiled, but there was something sad still lingering. 'Belle,' he whispered. It was like her name was a mantra, or that he couldn't believe he was getting chance to use it again. 'I'm not worthy of you.'

'What makes you think I'm worthy of you,' Belle challenged. It was more honest than she'd dared to be before, but hadn't she spent her whole life being worth very little to everyone. Hadn't she been cleaning and tidying after men all her life, wouldn't they have let her freeze in the rain for being foolish enough to forget a coat. She'd never done anything in her life to deserve a man as kind and true as Gold, and as though to confirm his goodness, he replied:

'You're worthy of everything.'

She smiled, like she'd never smiled before. The emotion so powerful she almost cried. In fact she might have been crying, it was difficult to tell with all this infernal rain.

'Now, let's get you inside,' the ever-practical side of the man taking over. 'You're going to freeze and you still have fans to meet and books to sign. I'll get you a coffee, do you still drink caramel latte or...?'

'Kiss me.'

'What?'

Belle's command had caught her off-guard as much as him, but she knew now that she'd said it that she'd never really wanted anything more.

'Just stop, for a moment,' she smiled, 'and kiss me.

'But it's raining,' Gold pointed out dumbly, pointing up at the cloud-covered sky as though she could somehow have missed that they were standing in an ever-growing puddle with an umbrella tossed aside and neither really wearing an appropriate rain protection. 'You'll catch pneumonia.'

'So?'

And with that, he slid his hand to the small of her back and pulled her towards him and pressed his lips to hers.

::

This was his worst nightmare. The "that-never-really-happens" moment of a Hollywood movie or a badly-written romance novel. It was the dreaded kiss in the rain. Water was in his hair, running down his back and soaking through the shoulders of his shirt. His trousers were stuck to his legs and the cold breeze was biting through his feet.

He barely noticed any of it.

Belle was not only real, and not only did she remember him, she was kissing him. Her soft lips, against his, her tongue brushing his in the most tantalising manner. He wanted more, he had a feeling he always would, but even in this heady daze, reality called to him and as sickeningly storybook as this moment was, he didn't actually want to be bed-ridden (not with the flu, anyway).

When they broke apart, her eyes stayed shut for just a moment; eyelashes clumping together with a mix of make-up and water. When she opened them, she was gazing at him with such adoration that he almost felt sick. He'd never really been worthy of that look from anyone, let alone Belle; beautiful Belle.

'Come on,' he mumbled, stooping to pick up the umbrella. It seemed a little redundant now, but he didn't really think that sheer elation should result in littering. 'We really must get you back to your adoring fans.'

'Okay,' she agreed, sliding her arm through the crook in his elbow. Their thighs brushed together as they walked and Belle rested her head on his shoulder. It looked awkward for her, but she seemed comfortable, content even. It was like she was always meant to be there, like she always would be at his side.

And that's where we'll leave it, because that was where the encounters ended and the dates began. Dates which extended to romantic weekends, which extended to meeting the family, and then to finding a flat, to finding a wedding venue, and finally shopping for cribs and baby clothes.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is: They both lived happily ever after.

* * *

><p><strong>[Firstly I need to apologise for the kid's accents. I can only write about four accents, all of which are in the UK, so despite being set in the US the kids do have London phrases ... sorry!]<strong>

**Thanks for much for reading this fic. I really hope you've enjoyed it and would love to hear from you in the little comments box. Thanks for all the subscribes, favourites and reviews too!**

**Anyway, have a wonderful Christmas period (I've off to watch Disney's Beauty and the Beast for the third time in a week - it's my Christmas tradition) and an Have a Happy New Year!**

**Sisi...xx**


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